PriceGaz Week

The ocean has been here since the beginning of world. He stayed in deep slumber, the cradle of life in his palms of a giant - and it was a silver circle of light rippling in the uneven canvas of the sea that awakened it. Young and curious, the moon called for him - and he listened, standing up and reaching for the outstretched palm from the sky.

Someone as eternal as the ocean doesn't know shame of falling in love so easily - he doesn't know to be flustered about the ease with which a newborn moon bent him to his will, doesn't know how to feel silly for responding to the call of silver bells in the moon's dark hair every night. Someone as elusive as the moon doesn't know shame of toying with the ocean's heart - he doesn't know to be humble about the power the sea entrusted him with, doesn't know how to tame his passion for the deep rumbling waves.

Kyle steps down from the sky, letting his bare feet drown in the runny sand, ankle bracelet made of falling stars shining through the thin veil. John meets him halfway, pulled in by the foce no thing in the universe can defy, and the surf he brings washes over their feet, tickling skin with bubbling foam. They kiss - it tastes like wet salty rocks, they look into each other's eyes - there's the inexplicably bright darkness in Kyle's and the shimmering watery deppth in John's, they intertwine their fingers - and the nightly date begins.

John offers Kyle ivory white pearls in his open palm - little moons he grows under his watchful eye, a dedication of life to his love. Kyle takes them, smiling with his pearly teeth shining in the night, and puts his locks through the big ones, blowing smallest off his hand into the sky to become new stars. He combs through John's hair, sprinkling white glitter over the grey of foam, and trails his fingers down John's chest, leaving a shimmering moon path on his body. John smiles - corners of his eyes crinkling into tiny windy waves - and pulls Kyle's hand to walk along the shore.

They talk of the things the other one can't see - Kyle tells of the secrets behind the sky's veil, the cold emptiness and vastness of space, littered with blazing hot suns, John tells of the mysteries in the ocean's depth, the mirky darkness and pressure of ravines, inhabited by skull-faced creatures. Kyle laughs like falling silver coins, John chuckles like rustling waves hitting a rock.

When they decide to rest, Kyle sits down on a rough boulder and John kneels at his feet, hugging around his knees and leaning against his thigh. His lips gaze Kyle's skin, and Kyle caresses his hair, singing to him in the sky's tongue. It's when he teases John with his toes, pinching and pushing that a sudden wave crashes into the rock, splattering Kyle with cold water and washing him off into the wet sand. He falls - with silver jingling and a heavy thud, and laughs, pulling John down with him by his sturdy neck.

Kyle hears a snort, distorted by the shitty sound in comms, and smiles into his rifle's scope. He wasn't kidding about feeling like a pig in mud - weather conditions turned the slopes they were supposed to have this stakeout at into a greasy mudbath, so that after crawling around for just thirty minutes the need in a ghillie suit disappeared entirely. With every passing minute Gaz can feel cold, liquid, slippery and squelchy mud seeping deeper into his clothes, and he's pretty sure that the few more sturdy and steady rocky bits he placed his rifle on are slowly drowning in this shit. At least it smells like wet clay and not like...

"Don't needa hear your fantazies over the comms, Garrick. Keep the channels clean."

Price's hushed voice sends shivers down Kyle's spine - or maybe it's the nasty Russian summer chill, and he shrugs it off his shoulders without tearing his eyes off the target - or the lack of such. He can clearly hear his Captain smirking, so he pushes his luck again.

"I don't know, sir, feelin' kinda filthy today. Drippin' wet, even."

"Dirty boy, are ya? Too bad. Bath isn't on the schedule till the end of the mission. Over."

They probably both cringe a little - all in good fun, and Kyle sighs, getting back to the enthralling task of doing jack shit. He doesn't get antsy like Soap before the lad locks in, but his mind is wandering - especially because he started suspecting something since the hour two of stalking the empty warehouse up ahead.

"Sir." He waits for Price's quiet "wot" in his earpiece and sighs with extra flair. "The intel was dogshit, wasn't it?"

"You're not getting out of this jus' because ya got bored, Sergeant."

"Ya can't blame me, sir. I don't even have a nice view of your arse this time."

Price clears his throat on the other end and Kyle realizes - John in his turn must have a decent view of his arse, covered in shit, leaves and sticks. Must be fuckin' nice staying on the upper, drier land further back.

"So it's not me who's filthy, eh, sir?" He muses and gets half a mind to wiggle his butt for Price, but the slightest movement causes the pit his body indented in the diarrhea-like soil to make a pornigraphic squelching noise, and Kyle groans in a hushed voice. "For fuck's sake... don't tell me you're not fantasizing about a bath yourself, sir. Or a shower, at least."

At this point Gaz expects Price to get serious and shut him up for good - there's only so much joking complaining his Captain will take over the comms before he deems it too distracting; but to his surprise John sighs wistfully and relents. Probably agrees deep down that the intel was shit, but his stubbornness is too strong.

"A proper hot tub, Sergeant. With massage jets. Go big or go home."

"Mm, fuck, and some fragrant foam," Kyle doesn't mean to practically moan into his mic, but the thought of putting his cold, stiff back against a pressured stream of hot water is too enticing. Even without imagining Price sitting across, wet fur clinging to his chest and arms resting on the tub... "Like a strawberry scent, what do ya say, sir? Or better, actual strawberries on a plate right there... with a nice strawberry shake, too..."

"Gettin' pregnancy cravings already, Kyle?"

The answer rolls off his tongue fast - and obvious.

"Negative, sir. Haven't been bred in a while, ya see."

Price chokes on the other end of the comms and grunts, then Gaz finally hears his rifle supports fold.

"Olrigh', cheeky. Get your arse up here, I'm gettin' us outta here. There's no way these fuckers show up, intel's shite."

Gaz takes off his place in an instant, crawling back to John like a lizard on speed, then getting up and crouch-rushing. He gets to Price and wipes the mix of grime, paint and mud off his face, dripping the shit sludge down his legs. John senses there's some demand coming his way by the sheer look of those big brown eyes, guilting him with no words uttered yet.

"If ya get us that hot tub, I won't say "I told ya so", sir."

"You're with me."

He should've known his life would forever be changed after that moment.

At first, Kyle figured it was just… temporary. A tactical pairing born from need and the fact that—in the midst of the chaos—he was in the right place at the right time yelling the right words.

"Blue! Blue!" Kyle threw his hands up as the soldiers approached, guns still drawn. One man's gun still smoked—not that Kyle paid any mind to the fighter dead on the ground beside him, knife clattering across the pavement. No, instead, all he could focus on were the mutton chops and dazzling blue eyes of his apparent savior.

"I see you. You armed up?"

"Yes, sir."

"Captain Price… you're with me."

Nothing more than standard operating procedure in the midst of a terrorist attack, right? A commanding officer taking charge, the junior ranks following their lead. Clean, clinical, hierarchical, normal.

Except Price was more than just clinical. And this was more than just your run-of-the-mill terrorist attack. And sure, this wasn't Kyle's first rodeo—he could handle himself, thank you very bloody much, but the way Captain Price carried himself? It drew him in like a magnet, fascination and awe and disbelief warring in his belly as they worked through the Tanto building.

He shouldn't've been surprised in the least. Price moved like he'd carved war into his bones. Like chaos bent around him out of sheer respect—every motion precise, every decision right. Competence.

Pure, undistilled, fuck-off competence.

And fuck, had he always had a thing for that. It had no bloody right to be that… that sexy, and yet here he was thinking with his dick in the middle of a bloody bombing. But after the dust settled and those bright blue eyes looked at him in the low light, listened to what he had to say? Without judgment or reprimand? Oh, Price had him.

Hook.

Line.

Sinker.

Gaz is standing under the slow, heavy waterfall with his head tilted up to catch clear cool splashes onto his face, probably both aware and unaware of the heavenly sight that he is. His dark hair that has quite grown since the start of their leave is already shrinking, soaked with fresh moisture, coiling into tight rich curls glistening with tiny diamonds of droplets covering them. Water runs down his body, wrapping around every curve of his sculpted form, rolling off strong shoulders and splashing in the natural dip of his spine right above his arse.

His absolutely, shamelessly bare arse, notices Price through his binoculars.

Despite all his experience in covert operations and disguise John does a shit job at covering up his ogling, because Kyle notices him, when he opens his eyes and wipes water off his face, and flashes him a charming grin, turning around in an effortlessly model-like pose, showing off the shaped curve of his hip and V-line that guides Price and his very obvious lenses to Garrick's perfect prick half-submerged into warm water of the thermal bath. Gaz knows what he's doing - from where he's standing, he watches two reflective circles of the lenses lower slightly, and splashes water around his waist, hiding his bare body in the whirlwind of white bubbles.

Finally, John puts his binoculars down and grumbles something under his nose, making a show out of putting it aside and leaning back to avoid Garrick's sly gaze. Too late, though: over the rumbling and hissing of the falling water he hears splashing come closer and closer to him, until a shadow falls over his sightly reddened despite all the efforts of their strongest sunscreen face.

"Saw something you like, sir?" asks Kyle, squinting at John with an amused smile. His voice murmrs like he's a part of the water system, and large droplets gliding down his smooth skin and getting caught in dark hair only add to the illusion of Price getting visited by some kind of hot spring spirit.

A mischievious spirit, must be added, since Gaz flips his hair and splatters his Captain with water that seems cool after frying in the sun for too long.

"Ya're a muppet," grumbles Price, opening one eye and scrunching his face before wiping it down with his hand. Kyle laughs - standing there without a shy bone in his body, proudly showing off his limp dick with thick black curls around its base, spreading up his stomach and down his thighs. It's a mouthwatering sight - difficult to resist when Gaz stand so close; even more difficult, when Kyle notices the dreamy, sun-dazed look in John's eyes and gets a good glance at his spread out body, thick and hairy, displayed for his enjoyment - and starts to get hard.

He bites his lip, still unashamed by the way his admiration and desire shine through so easily, and leans in, getting caught halfway in a greedy, heated kiss by Price. He strokes through the lush beard and lets his hand slide down to John's tits, squeezing and kneading soft pecs, Price's skin so overheated from tanning that Kyle's wet fingers seem cool and make his nipples harden almost instantly.

"Gettin' all excited, eh?" he chuckles and gets immediately bitten on his lower lip in revenge. John strokes his side and gets a grip on his thigh, admiting the thick, dense muscle and the way Kyle's skin still dips under his touch despite all the firmness and strength of his form. It doesn't take long for him to slide his palm further, between Garrick's legs, cupping his balls and tasting a shaky breath in their drawn out kiss as confirmation that he has an effect on his Sergeant no less significant.

Before Kyle has a chance to run his hand down Price's hairy belly and palm his hard-on, John sits up with a grunt and sinks down to his knees on the grassy floor. He squirms a little, finding a comfortable position, and it goes straight to Garrick's head, making him visibly twitch as he runs his hand over John's hair, his own falling around his face in an angelic manner. Price chuckles, noticing it, and gives a vein running on the underside Kyle's dick a teasing kiss.

"Ah, shit," Gaz sucks in fresh, moist mountain air and lets his eyes droop, watching John lazily nuzzle up to his already fully hard cock. His beard feels ticklish on the tender skin of Kyle's innner thighs and hip crease, lips soft and as warm as the water in the thermes, so when Gaz finally sinks into the wetness of his mouth it feels like walking into the muddy waters again.

Price takes his time sucking Gaz off. He starts slowly, gliding his lips along the shaft and lapping at the soft skin, tasting that weird, almost exquisite mixture of natural musk and minerals dissolved in the water. When the saltiness of Kyle's precum overtakes, though, he finally hollows his cheeks and swallows deeper - Gaz almost feels his knees buckle when he hits the back of Price's spasming throat. He finds purchase on the backrest of the lounge chair hastly and lets loud, guttoral moans spill from his lips, eyebrows raised and eyes closed shut, as John tortures him with pleasure.

Price caresses Kyle's sack with his rough fingers, teasing his seam and pressing into the sensitive spot with this thumb, and this, along with another deep gulp of his contracting throat around Garrick's tip, makes Gaz spill, stumbling and laughing through another filthy moan as he damn near falls over. Kyle pulls out, preventing Price from choking on his load, and wipes what's spilled off his beard and stache with a shaky hand.

Rubber surface springs under Kyle's running shoes on each step. He's doing his laps, testing his endurance on the long distances with additional weights, and has already several kilometers behind his back. There's a familiar slightly metal taste in his throat from the increased blood pressure, a scratchy burn in his calves and sticky sweat on his skin, coming out hot and liquid and drying in the headwind into a thin film. Exercising keeps his head clear, anxiety and thousands of pressuring thoughts often clouding his mind incinerated in the heat his body generates into the world with every flex of his muscles - and it reflects on his face, peaceful with a hint of a smile even, despite the scorching exhaustion.

For Price it's the complete opposite. Standing outside with a simmering cigar in hand, relaxed and groggy after another almost sleepless night that left him with barely any power to generate thoughts, he catches sight of Gaz running and immediately gets stuck with his eyes glued to the lean figure. Kyle is full of springy, tight strength, coiled in the firm muscles, each one taut and perfectly elastic. Rather slow pace he chose for the long distance run allows Price to see it all in detail: he watches Garrick's sculpted thighs flex and jiggle from the impact of his steps and feels his mind sink to his gutter almost against his will.

Kyle is perfect. Wite sleeveless top with large dark stains of sweat soaked through clings to his chest so tight that John wonders how it's still in one piece; his skin is glowing with sunlight bouncing off sweaty curves of his shoulders, weights taped around his ankles somehow turn into beaded cuffs and bracelets instead of boring pieces of equipment - all thanks to Kyle's effortless beauty. John wets his lips with a little tobacco crumb stuck to them and imagines himself tearing these weights off with his teeth, Garrick's perfect legs resting on his shoulders in a bent position that shows off incredible landscape of his back and inner thighs.

This short 25th frame turns out to be the gateway drug for the rest of unsavory thoughts that flood Price's mind with little to no resistance from him as he shamelessly ogles his Sergeant on his morning run. When Kyle raises his arm to wipe sweat off his forehead and flashes dark armpit hair, John gulps, vividly remembering that same sight from another angle, with Garrick panting above him, lean arms resting against the headboard of the creaking bed to support his hip movements. This emphasizes the elegant shape of his pec lined with a neat curve down from his arm, peeking from the tank top just enough to remind Price of the generous squshy meat there - John's fingers twitch instinctively, wanting to latch onto Kyle's chest and knead it, brushing his thumbs over the firm nipples and dark dusting of hairs slick with sweat.

He wants - no, he needs to pull Gaz in his lap, get a posessive grip on his perfect arse, sliding up under his shorts to cope a feel directly; needs to feel Kyle's thighs squeezing his own in an effort to grind desperately and get some relief on the desire pent up in the evident bulge in his crotch; needs to kiss Garrick until their lungs burn like after thirty kilometers of running, tasting salty sweat soaking Kyle's moustache. His Sergeant feels like a tight new gun of his favourite model in hand: precision, comfort and the right amount of stubborness that distinguishes him from a more compliant, older arm - and Price is fully leashed by this almost-tamed strength.

Passing his Captain for the third time, Gaz finally notices the way Price stares at him - a heavy, heady gaze, full of promise of big rough hands smelling of cigars running up and down his arching back and firm, demanding kisses of lips that no one knows are the softest - and slows down to send John a wink.

"Help me with stretches after this, sir?" he asks cheekily, turning to run backwards - anything to see the effect his mischief takes on Price.

"You're playing with fire, Sergeant," grumbles John into his beard, trying to discreetly adjust himself. "Don't make me wait or the burn from laps will be the least of your worries."

Kyle hums, not entirely believing him, but he lets it drop. They’ve each accepted each other’s secrets, ready to unravel them one day like pulling from a stray thread on a cozy sweater. No need for it now. Let the sweater be warm, instead.

John leans on the railing, shoulder brushing Kyle’s, and watches the dark sea stretching out in front of them until it merges with the night sky. It’s probably around midnight, if John had to guess. Feels right.

Time passes so relentlessly, he thinks. The first wrinkles have begun to form in the corners of Kyle’s eyes. John knows he’s greying himself, and his hip gives him trouble most days. Each night they grow closer to the finish line.

Grow, yes. Together, always. Towards, perhaps. From one nightmare to another sweet dream, each night they hold each other close and the intimacy becomes easier to bear. It was a learning curve, to accept weakness. The necessary lies to excuse them.

”Do you ever wish it had gone differently?” Kyle asks then. John wonders what brought this on – another nightmare or staring up at the ceiling in the dark and trying to untangle the web of history trapping them in place?

”No.” John then hesitates. “Maybe sometimes. I wish there had been less…” Cruelty. Grief. “Blood on our hands.”

“Do you think we could have gone about it any other way?” Kyle chuckles. “Gloves off, wasn’t that the deal?”

John smiles. “It was.”

John reaches his arm around Kyle’s shoulder, feels him press closer and there is a light shiver to him as the cold night air finally gets to him. John still feels warm from sleep, but the wind is getting to him too. The sound of waves overwhelms the soundscape.

Perhaps John should regret it, the way they got here. Through gunshot wounds and destroyed bodies, through nightmares and the constant terror of losing what they hold dearest. The fights, the clashing of strong wills and stronger love. The forgiveness.

But they have a home now, up on the hill overlooking the sea. They have a home they’ve built together on the ashes of their pasts. A strong foundation, built on years of shared violence, being each other’s safe haven in the brutality of war.

”I love you,” Kyle says then, a quiet thing John can barely hear over the wind, but it makes him bloom inside just as it does each time the words leave Kyle’s lips.

“I know,” John says, and gets an elbow to his ribcage in return.

“Say it back.”

“Does it count if you demand it?”

“It’s still true, isn’t it?” Kyle glances at him, a glint of humour in his eyes. And something else – a longing. Need for reassurance. Where it comes from, John has no idea, wishes he could chase that insecurity to its source and suffocate it under his soft touch.

“Always,” John says.

“So?”

John ducks his head, looks down at the sea, the waves that lull him to sleep in Kyle’s arms.

He looks up.

“I love you.” It comes out certain, unwavering. Without fear.

Kyle’s eyes soften with some emotion, perhaps the one John feels echoed in his own heart, the named agony that turns sweeter with each repetition.

To love is to be broken, then built again in return, until the shards become rounded by the gentle kiss of the sea.

“Let’s stay,” Kyle says. He shrugs John’s arm from his shoulder, and then opens the blanket. “Come here.”

John does as told, burrowing against his beloved’s body, sneaking his arm around Kyle’s waist. Kyle rests his head on his shoulder.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, stepping closer to where Price is waiting for him, and Price stands frozen in place, trying to find the courage to say what he’s supposed to. The elven man comes to a stop in front of him, and places a gentle hand on his chest.

“You didn’t tell me you were a prince,” Price blurts out.

Gaz stills, his eyes widening. The tips of his pointy ears twitch just slightly.

“Oh,” he says, then casts his eyes to the ground. “I see. You figured it out.”

“Were you planning on telling me at some point?” Price asks. His voice sounds hoarse to his own ears. He hopes Gaz can’t tell.

Gaz bites his lip. “I don’t know,” he says, and Price knows it’s the truth.

He tips Gaz’s chin with his fingers. “Why?”

Gaz looks up at him and Price’s breath hitches. His eyes are brimming with tears, each of them silver like starlight, and instantly Price frames his face with his hands, wiping away at the falling stars with his thumbs.

“Fuck,” Gaz says, as un-princely as possible, and then huffs out a laugh. “I’m not crying to manipulate you.”

“I know,” Price says softly. “You were just surprised.”

“Ashamed,” Gaz corrects him. Then he sniffles and holds his head up high. “You’re right.”

“So you are a prince, then?” Price asks one more time, even though his suspicions have now been confirmed.

“Not the crown prince,” Gaz says. “Second in line.”

“That’s prince enough for me.”

Gaz looks at him, blinking silvery tears from his eyes. “Maybe so.”

“You know I’m not knighted,” Price says then. “I’m not of noble birth. I’m just a commoner and I could be—”

“I wouldn’t have put you in danger,” Gaz interrupts, firm. “I’m only the second in line. I can do pretty much whatever I want.”

Price gives him a steady look. “But I can’t.”

Gaz worries his lip again, a nervous tick. Price drops his hands to Gaz’s shoulders.

“There are… many obstacles between us,” he begins. “Not just this.”

“I don’t care about your lifespan,” Gaz says, “Elf or human… what does it matter in the end?”

“It matters to me,” Price says, sliding his hands down Gaz’s arms to clasp his hands. Gaz squeezes his fingers. Price squeezes back. “I don’t want you to be alone.”

“I’ll…” Gaz searches his face, as if looking for answers. “I’ll figure something out.”

“I’d rather you not deplete your magic for trivial things such as that,” Price says with a smile. “Death is death. Status is status. I should’ve known it was too good to be true.”

“I’ll marry you.”

Price blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“I’ll marry you,” Gaz says, his eyes now resolute. “That will fix the difference in our positions.”

“I won’t become a consort—”

“I’ll make you my husband,” Gaz says and there’s finally some fire to him. “I’m the second in line. I can do whatever I want.”

There are still tear tracks shimmering on his face, like glitter. Gaz’s eyes are a challenge, a dare to defy him. Price should have known he was royalty from this expression alone. The thought of it makes him smile.

“My prince,” he says, brushing Gaz’s hair back behind his pointy ear. “It fits you.”

“What do you say?” Gaz demands, and there is an edge of nerves to his voice. “Will you marry me?”

There is a light breeze, coldness of the night settling in. Price looks at his lover and brings Gaz’s hand to his lips, presses the palm of it reverently.

“You can do whatever you want,” he says, and Gaz’s smile is as bright as the stars above.

Ann from Southampton with her blurry voluminous hair straight from 1987 presses the buzzer and gets "Manchester" right on their TV screen. Kyle doesn't even try to hide his proud grin and gets himself another pinch of crisps.

"Aye, she's a gorgeous woman, sir, I'll give you tha'," he agrees, leaning back on the couch and watching Sue and her rainbow-patterned sweater disappear to reveal next picture in the chain. "Yeah, that's definitely songs."

"Olrigh', smartass," grumbles John, who just spent last five minutes arguing that Kyle's guess about the connection between the pictures was not solid enough. He hasn't come up with any other one yet and is too stubborn to admit that his Sergeant got it right so soon.

He's sprawled on the couch, legs bent lazily just enough so Gaz can fit on the other end - after all, he and his cracked ribs are the only reason Price is agreeing to rest at home at all. If Kyle hadn't pulled out his pleading puppy eyes and asked his Captain to stay with him so he doesn't go insane with boredom, John would've been in his office, buried under paperwork despite his leave, or pushing himself to the limit in the gym just to feel like he isn't being useless.

Spending time with Garrick never feels like a waste. Even if all they do is laze about on the couch watching decades-old game show. Just watching Kyle, his expressive face, smart sparkle in his eyes, exquisite, graceful features all coming together in the most breathtaking image one could think of - yeah, he could just spend his leave mesmerized by Gaz and it wouldn't feel like he was doing nothing useful.

"Out of time, unfortunately. It's a difficult one if you're not thinking along the right lines, but the connection is they're all types of song. Let's look at the pictures again. Boating song, rugby song, cradle song - lullaby in other words..."

Kyle turns to John with a triumphant smile that has "told ya, sir" written all over it in white teeth and happy crinkles and gets hit with a heavy, half-lidded gaze of northern sea in Price's eyes. The giant wave of it crushes onto Gaz with barely any warning, knocking him off his feet, drowning him in dense salty water, pushing, twirling, draping cloudy bubbles over his sight - and Kyle welcomes it. The force that his Captain is can't harm him, it only cradles him in strong palms and supports his weight before pushing him back out into the sun that John's smile is.

"You jus' watched it ahead to mess with me, you muppet." Price nudges his thigh with his foot and Gaz bursts out laughing, wincing when it goes to his wounded side. He sits up, finding a comfortable position, and John uses that little time window while his Sergeant settles like a picky cat to shove his feet under Garrick's arse. "Gimmie tha'."

Kyle hands him the bowl of crisps and peanuts and lets his palm fall onto Price's shin, stroking absentmindedly through the bunched up fabric of his sweats. His touch is warm, not intrusive, but it makes John feel held and grounded in the current moment instead of his thoughts rushing back to work and grind.

"Fifteen." Kyle's voice interrupts John's blatant staring just in time for him to hear the contestants of the show get it right only seconds after the prodigy on his couch and only on the second attempts. "C'mon ya little wanker, get your math proper..."

Hearing Gaz berate the poor teenager with an 80s stache for getting an equation wrong makes Price crack another smile and he finally turns back to look at the screen instead of Kyle's adorably scrunched nose. In a few minutes he'll get up, just to spite the smartass by disturbing his comfort, and come back with another two beers, switching to rest his head in Garrrick's lap instead.

“They are serious about cycling here. Soap and I had a free day so we went cycling around the city, though I think we were more of a nuisance to the locals rather than blending in like we thought. Soap hasn’t ridden a bike in a decade and it has been some time for me too. But we did see many cool places. The canals are pretty and I could see us strolling around here some day. What do you say, popping here for a long weekend? I think it would be romantic.”

Amsterdam, Netherlands

~

John: I know it’s late and I hope you’re sleeping. When you see this in the morning, you don’t have to call me back, I know you’re probably busy out there. I just miss you tonight. I know I told you not to come back but tonight I regret having said that. I just want to see you again. Maybe if you have time to drop by during your next leave… but no. I told you to live your life and I mean it. I appreciate the cards. I’ve saved every single one.

Kyle: Have you been drinking

John: Maybe a glass or three.

Kyle: I miss you too. I’m coming back. Just wait for me

John: How do you unsend a message?

Kyle: Too late, old man

~

“Spain is as beautiful as I remembered, even if I would have preferred less excitement this time. You might wonder why this card isn’t sent from Spain but Mexico, despite the picture, but it’s a long story. Mexico is great too, the food is to die for. Spain just made me think of you. After Mexico I should be able to return to England. Maybe I can beg for some leave? We will see.”

Las Almas, Mexico

~

Kyle: Can you call me

John: Give me five minutes. You alright?

Kyle: Will be soon

~

Two years later, on one rainy and dreary day in October, Kyle returns.

The bell hanging above the door rings and as John steps into the reception, he freezes in his tracks as he lays his eyes on the man who has been on his mind (and in his phone) daily for the past two years.

He looks more handsome in person than John remembered. John had received pictures over these years – selfies, physical photos snuck between letters – but they don’t hold a candle to the real thing, standing now in front of him, dripping on his floors.

“Kyle,” he breathes out finally, and it’s like two years of longing is released in that one breath.

Kyle hoists his backpack from over his shoulder to the ground. “Hi,” he says, almost shy, and John is struck by how silly the situation is.

It was so easy to confess their affection through the lines written on postcards and letters and text messages. It was easy to sit in silence over the phone, let the feelings between them speak louder than words. Not that they didn’t speak at all – they could talk for hours, about everything and nothing, the daily routines and whatever would break them, the weather, their deployments, families, health. Never of their feelings, but what was left unsaid was always implicitly clear nonetheless.

Now, in person, John is speechless.

Kyle flashes him a smile. “Did you miss me?”

For a moment something inside John holds him back, ties his tongue, his mouth dry. How could he admit to it? That not a day went by that he didn’t think of Kyle? That there is a spark within him that won’t go out no matter the distance? Being open like this feels like he’s opening himself up for inspection, all blood and guts for Kyle to see and witness.

Saying that he misses him, out loud, is like showing an old scar.

“Of course,” he rasps. “Of course I did.”

Being this vulnerable is unthinkable, but he owes it to Kyle, wants to say it now. There are so many words that want to pour out of him, so many emotions that want to reach the man of his dreams, and he doesn’t know how to say any of it, but he will try.

Kyle takes a step closer, his smile brilliant and eyes soft, and the ice finally breaks and lets John move. He steps away from the reception desk, rounds it, comes to stand in front of Kyle, and doesn’t move away when Kyle reaches out to touch his cheek.

“I missed you too,” comes the quiet confession, and John’s chest is full of joy and that unnamed emotion that lights up his entire being. “It never ended.”

“No,” John agrees, “it didn’t.”

It’s strange – so much has happened between them but also nothing at all. It’s like they’ve been suspended in the moment of those ten days in spring, and now time has finally lurched forward.

Kyle is here. He’s really here.

“No postcard this time?” John hears himself asking.

Kyle lets out a small laugh and it’s the most beautiful sound John has ever heard. “Won’t be needing it.” He wets his lips nervously, shifts again. “I was thinking I could stay a while?” It’s said like a question, like he’s uncertain whether John would take him in.

‘You can stay forever’, John thinks, and says, “As long as you like.”

Kyle bites his lip. “Look, I know it’s probably a bit presumptuous, but can I—”